


Patient of Eternity

by blacklikethecolourof



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Child Death, Minor Character Death, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:24:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4053238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacklikethecolourof/pseuds/blacklikethecolourof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of her mother in a hansom cab accident, Charlotte Farrow finds it hard to cope alone. Very hard, in fact -- so to keep going, she makes her search for a good undertaker to restore her mother's beautiful looks her obsession. Everyone she asks points her towards one person -- the mysterious mortician tucked away in the very heart of the underworld. Little does she know, her fixation with death will soon take her down a different path of infatuation with a certain reaper...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter, Undertaker

The tall man, sheathed in his baggy clothes, runs his fingers along the edge of the polished wood. Long, black nails carve out slim rivulets in varnish, and he smiles slightly; before giving a rare grimace. In that split second, he decides:

He needs a fix.

His footsteps echo slightly as he walks towards the door, the grey cloak falling to the ground in a puddle of fluid fabric. The scarf, a slightly lighter shade, is cast off with it. His hat is carelessly tossed back, skittering across the floorboards and slipping behind a shelf. Spidery fingers reach up and flick his grey bangs back, displaying glittering, malicious green eyes.

He smiles, a giggle rising in the back of his throat.

Undertaker pulls open the parlor door and steps out, shutting it gently behind him, not bothering to lock it. There's nothing in there worth stealing that wouldn't... bite back. Another laugh bubbles on his lips as he starts to walk forward, intent on leaving the buzz of the more 'respectable' part of town. His lips begin to twitch, and the tip of a pink tongue glides along the lower, creating a deliberate, teasing gloss. His heels click along cobblestone in anticipation as the dresses of women begin to appear shabbier, the men less noble. Both with dark intentions. A lady in a dusty, violet dress and bustle is perched on a wall, skirt rucked up over the knees, leaning over with her corset untied and bearing unsightly flesh. Undertaker tuts to himself as he spots a male on the corner, staring at her. She makes eyes back, unaware that half the street occupants can see the flash of a knife underneath his sleeve and say nothing. The grey haired man finds himself chuckling yet again. How disgustingly evil minded some humans can be. Though what he plans to do is far from honorable, he doesn't care. All that matters is that his hunger is sated.

Undertaker leans back against the wall, flicks thick, ashy hair from his eyes once more, and lets a wicked smile pull at the corner of his lips.


	2. I : The Man With the Green Eyes

_I open my lungs, dear. I sing this song at funerals, no rush. These lyrics heard a thousand times, just plush._

"Mother. Mother, that man. Look!"

I was six, and I was pulling on her hand. My mother's, I mean. She was a beautiful woman; with dark, rosy lips, a graceful blush always on her cheeks, and brown, glossy ringlets tumbling down her back. I'd always envied those; although I'd inherited her chocolate brown locks, my hair was boring, paper straight. She had a slimmed down, ladylike figure; although how much of that was owed to a corset, I didn't know. Being from the nobility, she always dressed well, and made sure I did, too. 

"His eyes, they're so green, mother. " I blinked, fascinated. He was a tall man, with the most fantastic eyes; bright and cruelly tainted with yellowed lime. There was a curious, dark scar slashed across his pale face, teasing at the corner of his mouth, which bore white, wicked teeth.

"Stop staring, Charlotte, please," My mother pleaded, looking down at me. "He's nothing but a common funeral dresser. " Of course, at my age, I didn't understand why the dead had to be dressed up just to sleep in the ground for eternity. No one would see how beautiful they were anymore, so what was the point?

"Sorry," I mumbled, knocking into her skirts. "But he's pretty, he is."

Of course, the man didn't notice me staring; his ice-cutting smirk was concentrated on a pretty woman in a navy blue dress, who giggled a lot. So I could freely stare as we crossed the street, my small fingers rubbed almost raw as my mother hurried me along. She disliked having to cut through the undesirable part of town to get to her own mother's, my grandmothers, and disliked ever more that we could not use a carriage. But it had to be done.

That was one of my earliest memories, the grey man with his colourful eyes. It stayed with me as I collected more; a long chain of memories, like gold, treasure. My childhood was a happy one, that went on without particular incident; the only dark memory I hold is the death of my father. But then again, that was something I wasn't particularly affected by. I rarely saw him, cooped up in his study. All I knew him as was the man that bought me and my mother our dresses, nothing more. But I did the part of the grieving daughter. I stood by his hole in the ground, clasping my mother's hand, and cried along with her as the first clods of earth hit the coffin with a thump, thump, thump. Sheathed in black velvet that a dead man's money had paid for.

And as of that moment, my mother took over family business. Trade, I think it was, amassing an empire, hundreds of thousands of willing servants underneath her feet, stepped on when she saw fit. I didn't care. After all, it paid for our dresses, didn't it?

When I'd received notification, delivered by a sweaty looking boy who looked like he'd slit your throat for twopence, that she'd been struck by a carriage, I cried. She'd been a larger part of my life then my father ever was, and I had no living relatives willing to help me bury her.

Finding a good Undertaker became my absolute obsession. I'd seen her in the hospital, stretched out on a marble slab, bruised and battered. I needed someone to make her look whole again. I asked and asked, everyone I knew who'd suffered bereavement - and their fingers all pointed to one place.

It was with great apprehension that I entered the crumbling building on a overcast Saturday afternoon. As I stepped in, I became aware of the change in the air quality; it wasn't damp, or dusty, but surprisingly thick. I expected a room that was so dark and shadowed to be dusty, but every surface was clean, tidy and smooth.

I stood, rigid and resolute, in the center of the room, not sure what to do. Perhaps wait. Was that what you were supposed to do, in these sort of situations?

"Sir," I murmured hesitantly into the dark. Was he here? The door had been left unlocked, after all.

"Ma'am." There was a swift giggle from the dark. A tap on the tiled floor. And a man stepped forward. The man I'd never forgotten, the one who dealt with death. 

It couldn't be.

His son, maybe. Age still hadn't leant a finger to the man's face - he appeared to be in his early twenties, still. After thirteen years. It surely couldn't be him. And besides, the eyes - I couldn't see them, hidden behind their dark curtains. The color of ash. Ruin. Aftermath of a blaze; the left over.

"Ma'am?" His voice, now professional in manner, pulled me out of my thoughts. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I...I. Yes. I wish to have my mother... her ceremony, it's in...two days time..." A swirl of color ate at my eyes and I staggered. The man caught my wrist and pulled me upright.

"I understand that this can be difficult. Do you wish to sit, ma'am? I can offer you a chair..."

"Please."

A second - or a minute, or twenty, I wouldn't have known - later, I was seated on a straightbacked chair, trying desperately not to collapse again. I knew that I still blushed, and hated myself for that.

"When you're ready, my lady," he said patiently, leaning across the table, "I'd like you to tell me what you want for your mother."

"She...she liked flowers," I said, almost breathlessly. "Her favorites were violets... I'm being stupid, aren't I? Violets are inappropriate for a funeral, how ridiculous -"

In a flash, there was a dark purple flower underneath my nose, and he was smiling. "If she liked violets...heh, I can give her violets."

"Thank you, sir." I took the flower, and gave a small smile. 

"Coffins!" He said in reply, leaning back happily. "Oak is a popular choice...ma'am, what color suited her most in life?"

"Blue, I think. She always looked so wonderful in blue, sir."

"Heheh...Blue. Blue is a popular choice, would you believe?" He smiled and stood on top of the table - coffin - that we were seated at, pulling down a length of azure silk. "What do you think of this blue, madam?"

"It's lovely." I ran my fingers gently across the fabric and smiled. "It really is...sir?"

"Yes?" He sat back down, crossing his legs.

"Do you..." I felt myself blushing. "Do you think she'll be comfortable?"

The sharp edge of his smile softened slightly. "I think she most definitely will, ma'am."

"That's good."

"Coffins, coffins...heh. I apologize for rushing you, but I will really need to know what sort of coffin you'd like for your mother very soon. I must find the correct measurements quickly...line if, don't you know."

"I think..." I stood; my dizzy spell had left me. "Dark wood. That would go nicely with the blue."

"I agree, my lady. Mahogany, perhaps." He bowed, before standing and scampering over to a dark, rich looking wood. "I trust you don't have an embalmer?"

"Em...I apologize, sir, I don't know what you mean." 

He turned, and smiled at me. "Someone to prepare her. If she looks like you, my lady, I would so like to dress her."

"I..."

"Please," he said gently. "I do love the beautiful ladies of nobility. Such fine cheekbones and thick, long hair."

"Mama had ringlets..." I nodded. "Lovely brown ones. She was wonderful, sir. Treat her well and I will pay you handsomely."

"I have little use for the Queen's coin," he replied, "But I'll see what I can do. May I take your name, and signature, please?"

"Of course." I walked briskly over towards the man, as he made no movement towards me. Between black painted nails he grasped a sheet of thick, creamy paper. Taking initiave, I leaned over a sturdy looking coffin, and penned my name and signature. "May I have yours?"

"I am known simply as Undertaker, heheh....Lady Charlotte."

"Undertaker." I nodded. "A pleasure. My mother is at the hospital morgue. Lady Elizabeth Farrow. I expect to see her in the church at least four hours before the service. I assume you'll take care of all necessary grave work, headstones, things like that? I can reimburse you in any cost you concur."

"Yes, ma'am. I will see to it that everything is perfect, don't you worry." Undertaker smiled again. "The pleasure is mine."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Well?" 

Wordlessly, I reached out to stroke the silky lining of my mother's coffin. "It's as if she's still alive," I whispered. "She could be sleeping. You've done a magnificent job."

"I particularly enjoyed this one, Lady Charlotte," he smiled. Undertaker was stood at the top of the coffin with his hands folded, looking down at my mother expectantly. She wore a dress of dark blue, violets clasped in her slim fingers.

"She was so bruised, sir..." I reached out and gently slipped my finger underneath her cheek; the flesh was cold. That was okay. All I needed was re-assurance that she wasn't going to get up and walk. "There was a lot of blood."

"They did an awful job, that hospital, they did," he sniffed, voice laced with contempt. "Lucky the fools decided to store her at the right temperature."

Despite myself, I giggled. "You make it sound like she would melt had she been outside."

"Oh, but ma'am." Undertaker's voice took on a sorrowful tone. "She would have melted like an ice cream in summer, I assure you!"

I laughed louder. "We're in a holy place! Our souls will be damned."

I saw a flicker beneath his grey fringe; a wink. "My dear Lady Charlotte, you can't be damned if you don't have a soul."

I let out a rather unlady-like snort and stared up at the altar. "Do you think she went to heaven?"

"I'm sure she did."

"She wasn't a good person," I said quietly. "But I loved her."

"Ma'am, I'm sure that she'll get to heaven on your credit alone." Undertaker gave a sweeping bow. "Would you like to see the grave now?"

"I'll wait, if you don't mind." I dug in the pocket of my coat and handed him a paper, folded in half. He took one glance, and bowed at the waist again.

"It has been a pleasure doing business with you, my lady."

"And you, sir," I smiled. Undertaker turned on his heel, cloak flaring out behind him, and strolled down the church aisle carelessly. I watched him for a while, before taking my seat on the first pew, and waiting.

The ceremony was long, and frankly depressing. By the end, I felt almost suffocated; walking out alongside my mother's coffin, into the fresh air, was something of a relief. We crunched on the gravel path up to the graveyard; and reached the place where my mother was to be buried. There was a short intake of breath from the mourners. The pale white stone, which bore her name, was covered in lilies and passionate violets.

"Elizabeth always had a fondness for violets..."

I thought of the man with the beautiful green eyes.


	3. II : The Exception to the Rule

_I sit here and smile, dear. I smile because I think of you, I blush._

It slowly melted into December, an icy month full of snow and treacherous black. My mother had been gone for three months, in the ground. But I still visited every Sunday, talking to her, catching her up with my life, and replacing the wilting violets and lilies that the Undertaker had so carefully draped around her headstone. In her clasped hands, I could still see a shrivelled up, crumpled violet. And I wondered if she looked like the dead flowers.

Another death. It was cold, and icy, and people tend to die during the cold, no matter what age or class you are. No one related to me directly – an old business partner of my father’s. I was acquainted with his daughter, as well. So it was... socially acceptable, I suppose, that I went. I wore the same black velvets I had worn for my mother’s funeral, and she had worn for my father’s. A generation of death.

The church – a different one from my local chapel – was packed with people, but I couldn’t find the same suffocating, dampening atmosphere I’d been breathing in during my mother’s funeral. It was different. And as we accompanied the man’s coffin, and his grieving family out the door, I spotted a flash of grey. A very familiar flash of grey. Something made me wonder, in the back of my head, he was following me. But that was ridiculous. It was odd, it was wrong. I shouldn’t be having thoughts like that.

But still, I urged the crowd of black to hurry, and get up to the graveside rites.

Subconsciously, of course.

As the priest drawled on, I edged back through the mourners, and reached the last row of people. The Undertaker, shrouded in grey, stood there, leaning on a spade sticking out from the ground. He smiled, baring ice-tipped teeth at me.

“Lady Charlotte. We meet again, in the most grim of situations.”

“Undertaker,” I murmured. “You really are the best. The nobility go to you for everything, it seems.”

“It seems, indeed.” He left out a soft giggle. “I treat each guest as if they were my own mother, ma’am.”

“Your profession must take up so much time, sir. Does it pay well?” I immediately blushed. “I apologize, that was rude.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” He waved me off. “I get on well enough, my lady. Though it takes up a lot of time, that much is true.”

“And what opinion do you hold of social events?” I asked quietly.

“I never get invited.” He seemed to pout. “Which is a shame. I do enjoy dancing.”

I smiled. “I’ll have to put you on my list, sir. Odd, considering one of your skill.”

“As I said, ma’am, I never get invited. It seems the nobility doesn’t want to rub elbows with an Undertaker.”

“A shame. I’m sure you are quite lively at dances.”

“I assure you, I am.” He smiled at me. “We’ll have to test that.”

“Is that an offer?”

“Heheheh....I believe it is.”

“I’ll have to take you up on that sometime.”

“And I won’t regret that, my lady.” Undertaker’s grin took on the same soft quality. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been informed before, but your eyes, they’re the most wonderful shade of blue. They suit you like they suited your mother. What a pity that I should always see you in such drab clothing.”

I felt blood pooling in my cheeks, and he purred, reaching out to run a long nail along my skin. “Red. The colour of passion. It suits you, my lady. But blue, more so.”

“We’re at a funeral, sir,” I murmured, swallowing.

“I’m aware. Yet, I may not have contact with you again, my dear Lady Charlotte... and that would be a shame. Especially in these funeral clothes.”

“Have I not also always seen you in the clothes of your profession?” I teased quietly.

“I do have party clothes, you know. It would be most unbefitting to show up in the garb of an Undertaker.”

“Party clothes.” I smiled slightly. “How nice. Do tell me, sir, have you ever offered apprenticeships?”

Quiet, Charlotte, quiet. For the love of god, quiet!

“It’s not the type of thing I usually do, milady, no. Why? Do you know someone who may be interested?” A grin slid onto his lips. He knew what I was thinking, he knew it.

“It’s just....I would so like to see what you do in terms of preparation... of the bodies.”

“You want to see the embalmment, you mean.”

“Yes, that.”

“Well, that is an odd request.” He placed one foot on the blade of the shovel. “I’ve never had someone ask me that before...” Undertaker gave a short chuckle. “If you really are that curious, Lady Charlotte, I suppose I could offer some exception to my usual rule.”

“I would like that.”

“Drop by the parlour at any time, heheh...” Eyes flickered again, beneath his thick fringe. “I would be most delighted to acquaint you with the dead. And keep in mind...”

“Yes?”

“I like a woman who can give me a good laugh.” With a swift movement he yanked the spade from the earth and swung it around his shoulders. With the tip of a finger, he tipped the brim of his hat to me, and began to stroll away.


	4. III : The Sunday Best

_Regrets still haunt my hollow head._

“Ma’am? May I ask where are you going, as the cook says that dinner will be ready within the hour.”

I shrugged on my coat, making sure my hair was presentable in the mirror. “I have business in time. Tell the cook that it’s alright, and you can eat without me.”

“Ma’am, you’re wearing your Sunday clothes....are you alright?” 

“Fine, Carla, perfectly fine.” I gave a smile, resisting the urge to shout at her. “Could you let me leave now, please?”

“Of course, ma’am, of course.” She scurried away, back towards the kitchen. I rolled my eyes, and stepped out the front door, beginning to walk down the path. My destination was the Undertaker.

I was fascinated by that man. I wondered why he kept such distinctive eyes behind a curtain of hair... why he seemed to be a mirror image of the last Undertaker, why he was so secretive, and seldom invited to parties.... yet chosen by many to dress their dead. And why he did it with such care and precision, as if they were still breathing. His odd laughter, unorthodox mannerisms, and a fascination of my fascination in itself.

I eventually stopped outside the grey, slightly cracked building and tried the door handle – it was shut. Hm. I gave a rapping knock.

There was no noise from inside, but a second later, the door creaked open, and Undertaker was smiling at me. “Lady Charlotte! How nice to see you. Step inside, why don’t you?”

I crossed the threshold, and the door swung shut behind me; he had disappeared. I heard a giggle in the darkness, then the strike of a match, and suddenly the parlour was illuminated by a flickering candlelight. Undertaker was standing at the head of a table, his own head bowed. A woman lay there. Sheets were draped over her chest and upper legs, and her pale torso bore rich black bruises. Her head was covered.

“Assault, ma’am. Her husband.”

“Yet he pays for her funeral?” I asked, walking over to the slab, my heels clicking. “That makes no sense to me.”

“It seems we think like-minded. A guilty conscience, perhaps? To lay his mind to rest, as well as her body.” Undertaker pulled back the sheet gently from her face. Her nose was broken, her eyes nauseating purple, lips a mass of cuts. I felt my stomach clench. She was a mess.

“How do you clean up such awful things, sir?”

“I enjoy making them beautiful again,” he replied, picking up a cloth and gently wiping the blood from her face. He selected a long handled paintbrush, and some sort of curious, skin-toned powder. I watched in awe as he began to paint in the bruises on her damaged skin, straightening the bridge of her nose gently with stints and eradicating the marks. Her lips, he sowed carefully back together, slicked on red and turned them up in a smile.

“Luckily, he didn’t do much damage,” he said, gently picking up her head and brushing through her thin blonde-grey curls. “And we have a dress. A white shroud. It’s a pitiful thing. Not something one deserves to be buried in, but it’s new.”

“Perhaps mine, sir,” I murmured.

Undertaker looked up, a curious expression on his face. “Pardon, Lady Charlotte? I get very absorbed in my work, apologies for not hearing you.”

“My dress. It’s my Sunday best, and easily replaced.” I stripped off my coat and draped it over a chair, spreading my skirt. “Remove the bustle and it could easily fit in a coffin. She deserves to be buried in something better, you’re right.”

“A most generous offer, Lady Charlotte,” he said gently. “Most noblewomen wouldn’t be so eager to sacrifice their best dress.”

“I have ones I prefer to this. But a funeral is the last great occasion in one’s life, so you should be dressed to impress, should you not?” 

“I think so.” A smile crept across his face. “Let me show you into the side room, some privacy would be best.” 

He walked towards a tall, grey curtain hanging on the doorframe, and held it open. I stepped inside; it was a sparse room, with little furniture, another table. On it was stretched a thin white gown, plain, with long sleeves and a short skirt. I wouldn’t be needing a petticoat, then... or a corset.

I turned; but the Undertaker was already gone. A ruddy blush rose on my cheeks. I’d need help untying the corset; Carla always did that. Perhaps I’d be able to preserve my modesty.

I stepped quickly out of my dress and draped it over the table; it was silk, pale green. I untied the bustle and dropped it on the floor; the skirt deflated. I stripped off my shin length petticoat, and was left in my corset and tights.

“Sir,” I mumbled, sticking my head out around the curtain. “If you could close your eyes for a minute, please.”

Undertaker looked up. “But of course.”

“Are... are they shut? I can’t see with...”

He used a black fingernail to sweep aside his hair; his eyes were firmly shut. He even had the same heavy scar. I stepped forward, tremoring, over to the table, and picked up his hand; it was surprisingly warm.

With my own free hand, I found the strings at the bottom of the corset and placed his hand there. “I can’t untie my corset myself. If you could be so kind as to refrain from opening your eyes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Undertaker murmured. Almost a minute later, I felt my torso relax; the ribbons drape down the bare fabric of my back.

“Thank you, very much!” I squeaked, hurrying towards the back room again. I quickly tore off the corset and yanked the white dress over my head. It hit my knees in a floaty curtain, brushing against the tops. She was a smaller woman then I.

I picked up the dress, my corset and petticoat, and walked back into the main room. His hair had fallen back into his eyes again, and he was busy working over the bruises on her body.

“Are you ready to dress her?”

He looked up and giggled. “Would you like to help?”

I flushed. “Is it... decent?”

“I assure you it is, my lady. We just have to be gentle.”

“Turn your back.”

“What?”

“Turn your back, Undertaker,” I ordered. “I’m going to lace her up, and I don’t think it’s suitable for you to watch.”

“Heheheheh!”

“Are you laughing at me?!”

“I’m turning, I’m turning,” he chuckled, held up his hands, and faced away. I gently pressed the corset to the woman’s waist and flipped her on her back, tying the ribbons carefully. With a small grunt, I managed to sit her up, and pull the petticoat over her head. Her flesh was cold.

“We’re ready for the dress, Undertaker, can you help me please?”

“Of course.” He faced us again, and switched places with me. I managed to slip the dress over her feet, and button it up at the back. I fanned out the skirts, and Undertaker gently let her rest against the table once more.

“Thank you for the help, Lady Charlotte,” Undertaker said. “It was most appreciated.”

“I enjoyed it, sir,” I replied, a smile on my face. “And I would most like to do it again. If that is alright with you, of course...”

He gave an answering laugh. “Shall we say Fridays?”


	5. IV : The Escort

_No dust will ever grow on this frame. One million years, I will say your name._

“I still have no manner in which to pay you for your work, Lady Charlotte.”

Two months of Fridays I had spent in the Undertaker’s parlour, quietly dressing and painting corpses, laying them in boxes. 

“I believe it is I who owes you something, Undertaker,” I replied, combing back the hair of the stout middle aged gentleman we had on his slab that day. “You have, of course, showed me most valuable skills should I ever have need of a line of work one day.”

“Oh, really?” His smile stretched, and he leaned forward on his hand. “What can I give you for the pleasure of your company, my lady?”

I pretended to look bored. “Make me laugh.”

“Make you laugh?”

“Did you not once tell me you enjoy laughter?”

“True, true laugher, my dear Lady Charlotte,” he giggled. “What can I do, to make you laugh?”

I raised a brow, daring. “Undress, and perhaps I will find a sight most amusing...”

“Filthy! Absolutely abhorrent!” He mockingly gasped, while I begun to roar with laughter. He caught my chin between his fingernails, turning me to face him.

“You have the most beautiful laughter, my lady,” Undertaker smiled. “How sad you’re not happy enough to display it more often.”

“Why should I be happy,” I replied quietly, “When all I am constantly surrounded by is death?”

“I, the same, and yet I laugh all the time.”

“But you... you have always been alone...”

“What makes you say that?” He asked.

“I saw you. I saw you.” I took in a shuddering breath. “I was six, sir, so young... and yet, you remain the same as you did thirteen years ago. You have not aged. What is your secret?”

“There is none.” He smiled. “I have a youthful face, yes I do.”

“Yes... with such distinctive scars.” My fingers burned; I wanted so badly to reach up, and to run my pinkie along the raised edge on his face.

“And you, with such blue eyes... they shone, with childlike curiosity,” He said in a whisper. “How you stared. And how young you looked, in such a dark, drab frock.”

“You remember?”

“How could I forget?” His sharp teeth shone, the candlelight bouncing off them. He manoeuvred my chin with each word. “How. You. Stared. Lady. Charlotte...”

“When was the last time you were at a ball, sir?” I murmured.

“I cannot remember.” His voice took on a dreamy quality. “The Phantomhive household always orchestrated the most wonderful, wonderful dances... I had so much fun, my lady.”

“Do you wish escort me on Sunday night?” I asked, swallowing on the same breath.

“To?”

“A ball, naturally.”

“Of what nature?”

“One Miss Emily Lantonine. She’s holding some sort of charity gala thing, and it’ll be terribly dull without a man on my arm.”

He began to giggle. “I’ll have to ‘scrub up’, my lady. After all, I’m nothing but a working class man. Do you really want to be seen with someone of my place?”

“My dear Undertaker.” I leaned forward, and bared my teeth in the same wicked fashion he so often used while talking to me. “It would be a pleasure to be seen with you if it means that I can count on your company.”

“How grand, ma’am,” Undertaker said, releasing my face. “How grand. It seems that you should get that dance after all, doesn’t it?”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Carla, contact Mr. Toure and tell him I won’t be needing a partner for Sunday after all, please,” I said briskly as I shed my coat onto a hanger.

“But it’ll look odd, innit?” Carla asked, following me as I began to climb the stairs. “Showing up without a partner, milady.”

“I’ve come across someone else I wish to bring.”

“Oh. Well, alright.” She locked us into my bedroom, waiting for me to step out of my skirts.

“Carla,” I asked as I pulled down my slip, “Are you not curious as to where I go every Friday?”

She paused for a moment, pulling at my petticoat. “I burn with curiosity, ma’am, I do.”

“Then why not simply ask?”

“If you’ll excuse me, it’s not my place. You return punctually every night, and seem to be in good spirits, so why should I be worried?”

I mused. “I should like to know what my servants think, Carla.”

“Sorry, milday, I’ll be honest with you in the future.” Carla began to untie my corset. “And I’ll be honest with you when I think you’re being very rude to Mr.Toure when you deny his invitation.”

“He’s so incredibly dull, anyway!” I started to laugh, sitting down on the bed to pull off my stockings. “I am always bored by his constant talk of whale fat this, and whale oil, that. Trust me, one day hunting those horrible creatures will be protected, and there will be no more killing.”

“If you please, ma’am,” Carla murmured, blushing, “His gardener, Cairney...he’s most kind to me.”

Eyeing her critically, I draped my stockings over the bedpost. “If I please? I think you would want me to accept his invitation for access to his gardener?”

“Y-y-you said b-b-be honest, and I –“

“I’ll visit him on Wednesday,” I yawned, pulling my nightgown over my head and slipping beneath my sheets, “And you can ogle this gardener then. Is that good enough?”

“Yes, ma’am. I apologize for being so impertinent, ma’am, I am sorry, ma’am,” she stammered, bowing. “Goodnight, and thank you, thank you very much ma’am.”

“Stop stuttering and leave!”

“Of course, ma’am.”


End file.
